A Fine Bordeaux
by evitamockingbird
Summary: Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and a decanter of Bordeaux.


**I call it "suggestive fluff." Judge for yourself.**

Mr. Carson sat at his desk, closing up the wine ledger and stacking his papers neatly. "We've a fine Bordeaux tonight, Mrs. Hughes," he told her. "The family hardly drank any of it at dinner."

Mrs. Hughes stood on the other side of his desk as he tidied up. She glanced at the small table just inside the pantry door, where she could see a large decanter almost full of the red wine. "Is it any good?" she wondered, crossing the room to fetch it. "Seems odd that they would drink so little."

"It's _quite_ good, Mrs. Hughes. They drank a good deal more of the white tonight is all." He shrugged. "In any case, it's ours, if you would care to join me for a glass or two."

She smiled and brought the decanter to his desk. "Certainly, I would."

It was common for the butler and housekeeper to understand each other without speaking, but a rare miscommunication now occurred. Mr. Carson lifted one hand to indicate that she should put the decanter down on a little table between their two chairs, but Mrs. Hughes thought he was reaching out to take it from her. She let it go when she thought he had grasped the handle, but his hand was not there. It did not shatter, but fell heavily on the fingers of Mr. Carson's other hand. The decanter tipped in his direction, the stopper falling to the floor, and splashed most of the wine all over his clothing.

"Damn!" he swore, jumping to his feet and shaking his injured hand, hissing in pain.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes righted the decanter, then hurried to his side and took his hand. "That's going to smart," she said, frowning. After just a few seconds, his fingers were starting to swell. "And no apologies for bad language, if you please. I can see it's called for."

"I'm sure it will be fine. I'll get a cold cloth before I go up."

Mrs. Hughes was doubtful. "I hope you're right." She eyed the contents of the decanter on Mr. Carson's desk. "So much for the Bordeaux. There's barely one glass left."

Mr. Carson noticed at last that his once pristine white tie and tails were now covered in the fine Bordeaux he had planned to share with Mrs. Hughes. He sighed. "I suppose I'll go up, then. I'll leave my coat down here, I think, and take it to the laundry tomorrow morning. There's no need to take _all_ of this Bordeaux up to the attic with me."

"Let me help you," she offered, circling around to stand behind him. "Just roll your shoulders back a little and let it slide off." He did as she suggested and she caught the coat as it slipped from his shoulders. She laid it over the back of his chair.

"Oh, dear," she lamented when she had gotten a good look at his stained livery. "I think we'd better get that soaking right away. If you leave it for the laundry maids to see to in the morning, it will be ruined. And I do hate to see a good shirt go to waste. Not to mention the tie and waistcoat."

"You're right," Mr. Carson agreed. "I'll put it to soak as soon as I get upstairs." He started toward the door, but Mrs. Hughes stopped him.

"You'd better let me help, Mr. Carson," she told him. "I don't think you'll be able to undo any buttons with your fingers like that."

He looked down at his injured fingers and then back to Mrs. Hughes. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, alarmed.

She approached him and started to unbutton his waistcoat, but he brushed her hands away.

"Certainly not," he told her. "I'm perfectly capable-"

"Show me," Mrs. Hughes demanded. "Show me you can undo those buttons and I'll let you go on your way."

Mr. Carson did as she commanded, but he found that she was right. His swollen fingers could not work open the tiny buttons. He was still not ready to give in, however. "I can't do it, but certainly it's not right for _you_ to-"

"Surely you've got a vest on under that shirt," Mrs. Hughes interrupted. "You'll be a little more casually dressed than I'm used to, but I shan't see you completely exposed."

"But-"

"Or do you fancy waking one of the footmen to help you out of your livery?"

"Well…"

"Come, Mr. Carson," she urged him. "We're old friends, you and I. Let me help you."

Mr. Carson frowned, but nodded reluctantly. He fixed his eyes on a picture hanging on the wall opposite him. It was an ink drawing of a little boy sitting on a riverbank, fishing. He tried to imagine that he was that boy, and that the sun was shining down on him as he sat by the sparkling water without a care in the world. However, as soon as he felt Mrs. Hughes's fingers on his waistcoat buttons, this idyllic picture flew from his mind. He felt heated from head to toe, but not by the warm sun on the riverbank. He put his arms behind his back, grasping one wrist with the other hand, just as he did when he waited at table.

Mrs. Hughes thought she must be mad. She had started on his buttons in her usual efficient manner, but, though there were only five of them, she had become quite flustered before she was halfway done. Whatever had possessed her to insist on this? She was sure her face must be flaming; it certainly felt like it. Her fingers trembled slightly and she glanced up at Mr. Carson's face, hoping he hadn't noticed. He was staring determinedly over her head, but she observed that he looked rather flushed as well, and that his breathing was a bit unsteady. This did not make things easier for Mrs. Hughes. She forced her fingers to move normally, but now she was aware of his every breath, and her own lungs betrayed her into matching Mr. Carson's irregular rhythm. At last the five buttons were undone, and she pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders. He let his arms fall to his sides, allowing it to fall to the floor, before clasping them once more behind his back.

Mrs. Hughes knew she could untie his tie in just a few seconds. Then she might quickly finish the buttons on his shirt and flee from her own foolishness. Taking a slow, deep breath, she moved her hands and her eyes up to his white bowtie, and was startled to find Mr. Carson no longer looking at the wall behind her, but down into her eyes. His dark eyes seemed to devour her and he breathed unevenly through slightly parted lips. She fumbled with the tie, her fingers taking longer than they should because her eyes were not on her work, and finally let it flutter to the floor.

Next Mrs. Hughes moved to his collar. It was trickier work than the tie, and she stepped closer to him so she could reach it. She could feel the fire emanating from his body, and various parts of her own body throbbed in response to his heat and nearness. She unfastened the collar and moved to the top button of the shirt. When her finger brushed his neck inadvertently, he shuddered and closed his eyes, though only for a moment, and his hands remained clasped tightly behind his back. Mrs. Hughes's worries that Mr. Carson might notice his effect on her evaporated as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt. All she could think about was the warmth of his chest under her hands and the pounding of his heart under her fingertips told her that she need not attempt to conceal her own arousal from him; she could detect _his_ excitement without much effort at all.

Mrs. Hughes finished unbuttoning his shirt and could not help running her palms over his chest as she pushed it from his shoulders. He let his arms fall to his sides so the shirt could drop to the floor, but it got caught on his hands. "Oh, how foolish of me," she said softly. "I should have removed your cufflinks first." She bent over one of his wrists, carefully pulling a cufflink from his shirt cuff. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She turned, without looking up, to do the same to the other cuff.

Mrs. Hughes stood back up to face him. Without breaking his gaze, she found his uninjured hand and placed his cufflinks in it. She couldn't help admiring the muscles of his arms and chest, the one remaining layer of thin material revealing more of him than it covered. Mrs. Hughes wondered what would happen next. She didn't want him to go. She wanted him to stay and she wanted him to touch her. "Mrs. Hughes," he remarked quietly. "If the point of your removing my livery was to soak it so it won't be ruined, it doesn't seem like a very good idea to leave it lying on the floor."

She ignored him. "Mr. Carson," she said in a low voice. "I believe there's a little Bordeaux on your vest. We'd better take that off, too."

Mr. Carson was sure she must see in his eyes how he wrestled with himself at this moment. He wanted to stay and he wanted to touch her, but he didn't think he should. Mrs. Hughes was in the same quandary, but the prospect of his leaving the pantry without laying a hand on her was unbearable to her. She had caressed him as she removed his clothing, but he had kept his hands behind his back or at his sides through the entire process.

They stared at one another for a half a minute or so before he bent his head down toward hers. She closed her eyes to receive his kiss, but it never came. "No," he whispered over her lips. She opened her eyes in surprise, almost anger, unable to suppress a small sigh of frustration. "Not _yet_," he amended, allowing a small, teasing smile to play over his lips. He stepped back from her and began to tug the vest out of the waistband of his trousers.

"You'll hurt your hand, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes asserted, pointing to a chair. "You'd better let me." Sore fingers did not prevent a man from removing his own vest, but Mr. Carson did not resist, and quickly took a seat. When her eyes met his again, she couldn't breathe, and she felt slightly lightheaded. He had never looked at her that way before, but she could read his meaning well enough. He was going to stay. He was going to touch her. They were going to make love, probably in this very room. On the desk, against the wall, on the chair, on the floor - she neither knew nor cared. She tugged his vest from the waistband of his trousers and allowed her fingers to trail behind as she pulled it over his head and down his arms. He stood, then, towering over her once more. Her scalp prickled and her stomach quivered.

"Your trousers, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes murmured shakily.

"Bordeaux?" he conjectured hoarsely.

"Yes," she sighed, her hands finding his belt and beginning to unbuckle it.

"Stop." Mr. Carson grasped her wrists gently and lifted them away from his belt. "Wait just a moment." He then let her go and Mrs. Hughes stayed where she was, watching him go to his desk and collect an empty glass and the nearly-empty decanter of Bordeaux that had started all of this madness. He poured the remaining wine in the glass, then lightly flung its contents across the room at her, soaking the front of her gown. Her eyes widened in surprise as a few drops streamed from her chest down the front of her bodice, dampening the inner layers of her clothing. Mr. Carson quickly crossed the room to stand over her again.

"Well, Mrs. Hughes, it seems you've got wine on your dress," he murmured in her ear. "Probably your corset, too."

"I suppose it will all have to come off, then," she breathed.

Mr. Carson pulled back a bit and examined her face closely. He lifted her chin very gently with one finger, then slowly bent his head down and licked a single drop of Bordeaux from her chin with the tip of his tongue. "Delicious," he declared in a low tone.

Mr. Carson's belt hit the floor with a thud as his trousers joined most of his other clothing there.

_The end._

**This one-shot resulted from a virtual conversation with chelsie fan about the virtues of Mr. Carson's white tie and tails, and how much fun Mrs. Hughes might have peeling them off. A bit OOC, for them and for me, but for some reason I couldn't refuse this particular dare.**

**Please consider leaving a review if you can spare the time.**


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